Serenity
by Dragynflies
Summary: Your eyes are open in the dark, head turned away from her and it’s all you can do to not roll over and take her in your arms. Tell her it’s going to be okay, that you know and that you’re just as excited as she is, and just as scared.
1. Chapter 1

Two in the morning. You watch the numbers change, ticking seconds. Allison is in the bathroom, throwing up, and you are quite sure she thinks you're asleep. Thinks you haven't woken up every time she's carefully crawled out of bed, tucking the covers around you so you don't feel cold in the empty space where her body aligned with yours.

You wonder when she's going to tell you. You've been together for nearly a year, living together half that, and you know her too well. You're also a doctor and the signs are painfully obvious.

She is padding back to bed now, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor and she crawls back into bed, but she doesn't tuck herself back into the embrace she'd woken up in. Instead, she curls her knees to her chest, wraps her arms around her legs and you hear a soft sniffle.

Your eyes are open in the dark, head turned away from her and it's all you can do to not roll over and take her in your arms. Tell her it's going to be okay, that you know and that you're just as excited as she is, and just as scared. 

Her light sniffles go on several minutes, and you can see the shadow against the wall when she raises her arm to wipe her tears away. You want to know what to do, but there's nothing in the dating handbook on how to handle this situation.

When her sniffles quiet, you think you've made the right choice. She'll tell you when she's ready. But then you hear a sob and a cough and you can't take it anymore. You roll over and open your arms; she turns her head when she feels the bed move and crawls into your arms without hesitation.

There is silence, broken by her sobs, and all you can do is hold her, stroking her hair. You suppose you could whisper something comforting to her, but that's not like you. You don't know what to say anyway; you settle for kissing the top of her head and rocking her gently.

When she stops sobbing, you ease her away from you enough to take the hem of your t-shirt and wipe her red cheeks. You place soft kisses on her closed eyelids, and smooth her hair away from her brow. She blinks her eyes open at you. They are bloodshot from crying. You kiss her forehead again and pull her close, tucking her head under your chin.

"I've known for three weeks," you finally say, "How long have you known?"

You smooth your hand over her back, comforting. You're not mad, not really. Except you know she's been to at least one doctor's appointment and you'd have liked to be there.

"Four," she mumbles into your chest. She doesn't offer any more explanation, so you shift away from her slightly, lifting her chin with a gentle finger. Now that you're finally going to talk about it you have no idea what to ask so you simply raise your eyebrow and wait.

She sighs, breaking eye contact and staring at the hollow of your throat, "Nine weeks," she offers. Your hand moves without conscious effort to her flat stomach, and she winces. You kiss her softly, letting your fingers splay out against her belly. You imagine your baby growing; the doctor in you laughs and tells you that it's not a baby yet.

You don't care.

"I want a girl," you say without thought, and her eyes widen noticeably and meet yours again.

"What?" she asks, as though you've spoken in a foreign language.

"A daughter," you repeat, "I think I'd like a daughter."

"You…you want the baby?" Allison asks, and tears fill her eyes again.

You wrap your arms around her and your heart breaks as it dawns on you that maybe this was why she didn't tell you - it never occurred to her that you'd want a baby.

You wish you had some amazing response to offer, something that would make everything better and make her never doubt you again. But words are failing you for the first time in your life and all you can do is nod, your chin brushing the top of her head.

She is crying again. Tears slide down her cheeks, but they are tears of relief…even happiness, and not the terrible sobs from before. She pulls away from you and takes her book off the nightstand, turning on the bedside lamp before coming back to you. She opens the book and pulls out a tiny square of paper.

"I saw a doctor last week," she whispers, "I…I didn't know what to do. I didn't think you'd want a baby and I didn't…" she pauses, looking up at you, "I didn't know how I was supposed to choose one of you."

You don't know how to respond to that, so you say nothing. You feel like a horrible excuse for a person right now, to have made her think that you'd leave her because of this, or worse that you'd tell her you didn't want it. You had never discussed children with her, and you'd assumed that would happen later. Instead, your silence had told her something completely different. You are used to people fearing you, hating you, because of your words, not the absence of them.

You take the tiny piece of paper from her and you look at it in the dim light. You've seen hundreds of ultrasounds, but for some reason the tiny white bean shape on this is different. Your finger comes up to touch the picture and you are stunned.

For a moment the only sound in the room is your breathing and all you can hear is the whooshing of air and it feels like you're falling or flying and you turn your head to look at her. You don't think you've smiled like this ever in your life and you can't do anything to wipe the grin off your face.

You are utterly amazed at the happiness you are feeling, or maybe it's the complete absence of hesitation that amazes you. The little white blob on that horribly grainy picture is your child, and you are going to be a father.

Allison is still staring at you, not saying anything, afraid she'll break the spell that you're suddenly under. You set the picture carefully on your nightstand and you push her shoulder so that she is lying on her back on the bed. Slowly, you drag the hem of her shirt up, exposing her stomach. She is uncomfortable, shifting under you, unsure what you expect and not used to you stripping her when there is no other focus.

You run your hand over her stomach and you realize it's not entirely flat anymore and you wonder for a second how you never noticed. It's not much, just a gentle, barely perceptible curve, but you hold her every night…you should have noticed.

She is still watching you, unsure of what to expect and you surprise her, and yourself, when you lean over and place a gentle kiss right above her navel.

You lower her shirt and lay again next to her, cradling her in your arms. You lay there, together in silence, your brain running a million miles a minute.

You wanted to tell her you were sorry for making her spend four weeks worried she was going to lose you. For making her spend four weeks worried you'd try to back her into an abortion even after she'd made her opinion known to you, worried that this was the worst thing that could happen to the two of you, even after all you had been through together.

You want to tell her you love her, but for some reason those words still stick in your throat, even though she's told you many times. You usually get away with a "Me too" and she's never said anything yet.

You glance over at her and realize sometime during your internal monologue Cameron has fallen back to sleep. She looks more peaceful than she has all month and a knot settles in the back of your throat.

You can do this.


	2. Chapter 2

Allison is seven months pregnant and you can't keep your hands off of her stomach. You make stupid excuses at work that everyone, including Allison, sees right through but you don't care.

"You dripped," you tell her, wiping at her belly, and she rolls her eyes and tell you she's on her way TO lunch, not from lunch, and she hasn't eaten since she had that bagel at 10, and there was nothing on her then. You mumble something that makes no sense and head off to your office.

"You're not coming?" she asks, and goes to the cafeteria. When you meet here there ten minutes later, there will be a Rueben and a bottle of water sitting across from her at the table.

You wonder what the stories about you two are – you've heard from several people there's a nice betting pool going that you aren't the father, but for once in your life you care not at all about placing bets.

Allison is having an easy pregnancy, the baby is growing perfectly and right on target and even though she looks at her extended stomach and whines, she hasn't gained an ounce anywhere else, though her face is getting round. You love watching her, especially when she doesn't think you are, because she is already so in love with your baby. She smoothes her hand over her belly all the time, and when the baby kicks in return she grabs your hand so you can feel too.

You wanted to name the baby Cameron, but she'd laughed at you. She'd made a joke about the poor child being "Cameron Cameron" and you remember the way your chest clenched. You were surprised how much you wanted the baby to have your last name, and you'd told her so.

She'd raised an eyebrow at you, and when you argued to make your case, she smiled at you and told you it was fine, that she hadn't thought that was something you'd care about and of course the baby could have your last name. But you still weren't naming her Cameron.

You argued Cameron for a middle name, and she'd waited till you shut up and then said Sophia, and you'd stared at her blankly for a moment before nodding.

Sophia Cameron House.

At home, when there is no one but Allison to see you and judge you, you let your fingers splay over her belly, and you tell Sophia you love her. You tell her you want to teach her how to play the piano and ride a bike and you want to take her to ballet lessons, but only if that's what she wants. You tell her you'll take her anywhere she wants to go, and Allison listens with tears in her eyes.

At night, when Allison is asleep and there is no one but you awake in the quiet darkness, you run your fingers through her hair and you tell Allison you love her. You wish you could tell her in the daylight, but you are so afraid of repeating your relationship with Stacy and you are scared to think that you could lose her, even now. The ring has been sitting in the bottom locked drawer of your desk for nearly three months, and you are growing frustrated with yourself.

Allison mumbles something in her sleep and rolls towards you, her arm extended. She moves until her hand connects with your shoulder and she wiggles until she is in your arms. She has not woken up, and you smirk and press a kiss onto her forehead. You think she could sleep through nuclear war.

You go to all of her doctor's appointments, and while no one would refer to your behavior as good, you do make an effort to curb the snarky comments to the woman who will be delivering your child. Dr. Jackson holds a decent verbal spar with you, and Allison sighs and rolls her eyes, and mumbles she wants another nurse in the room while she's in labor. Someone need to hold her hand, she mutters, but her annoyed façade is broken when the doctor hooks up the ultrasound and you see your daughter, in black and white pixels.

She stares at the picture, then at you, and then back at the screen. The baby is getting big now, and she looks like a baby (if you know where to look) and not like a peanut. You think it doesn't matter how many times you see this, your jaw still drops and you stare.

Allison's smile is so wide you worry her jaw will hurt later, but you understand. Dr. Jackson points out a tiny appendage, "Look, she's waving at you," before remembering you're both doctors. You don't even care, and you feel a little foolish because your hand almost lifts to wave back.

Dr. Jackson prints out several pictures for you and Allison, and when you think no one is looking you tuck one in your wallet. Allison coughs, and when you look over she's smirking at you and you tell her Wilson will want to see.

"Of course," she says, her voice neutral even as the corners of her mouth turn up into a smile.

You take her out for dinner that night, the ring box heavy in your pocket. She is eating her tiramisu with all the gusto of a pregnant woman when you clear your throat and set the box next to her plate.

Her spoon drops to the table and she swallows hard before she meets your gaze, her eyes wide.

"Aren't you going to open it?" you ask, and then think that was probably the worst proposal ever.

She swallows again, and reaches for the box, her hands trembling. She flips the lid open, her hand comes up to cover her mouth, and when she looks at you again she's crying.

"Well?" you asked, a little impatiently and then you soften and you reach across the table for her hand and you ask her really, glad your voice doesn't shake.

She nods, finally manages a "yes" and as you slide the ring on her finger she cries harder and you think maybe you should have done this before the pregnancy hormones got this far out of hand, but you don't know that you'd trade the look on her face for anything right now.

"Let's go home," she says, and you smile. You have everything you thought you didn't want, and you can't believe your luck.


	3. Chapter 3

You hold Allison's hand, or rather she is holding yours in a vice grip. You can feel the bones in your fingers crushing together but you are smart enough to realize that now is not the time to say anything about that. Instead you are the perfect fiancé, carefully sliding an ice chip over her lower lip before slipping it between her lips. You smooth her sweaty hair back off her head, and you let her hold your hand as tight as she wants.

You've been at the hospital since 1:15 that morning, and it's 11 in the morning. Allison is 37 weeks pregnant and very soon you will have your daughter. Two nurses are holding her feet and she is muttering something horrible about making you push for a while.

"You're almost there, Allison," Dr. Jackson is there, her usual sarcasm gone as she helps Allison prepare to deliver. She is soothing in this environment, and you are impressed, because you know if it were anyone but your Allison giving birth right now you'd be a bastard. 

"Push," you mutter, and offer a small smile in return to the death glare Allison shoots you. She listens, tipping her chin down to her chest, eyes closed in concentration and she pushes. A groan, and then Dr. Jackson is telling you to look, to see your daughter, here is comes.

You've seen children delivered before and you've always just thought the process was messy. But now you couldn't care less. Another push, another strained groan and Dr. Jackson is suctioning out the baby's nose and mouth and then she's out, she's here and Allison is crying and reaching for her. Dr. Jackson lays the baby on her chest and you don't even care that the baby hasn't been washed, because she's yours and she's here.

Oh God.

Allison's arms are cradled around the wet baby and a nurse is rubbing the baby's back and the baby is crying, and Allison is crying and if anyone asks ever, you were not crying. Not even a little.

"Do you want to cut the cord?" a nurse asks, offering a scissors and showing you the place between the clamps to cut and you're thankful, because you can't remember a single thing you learned in med school at this exact moment. You cut the cord and watch as the nurse takes the baby from Allison's arms and dries her off before weighing and measuring her. Despite being three weeks early, the baby is perfect.

"6 pounds, 4 ounces, 19 inches long," the nurse announces and Allison hasn't said anything yet but the smile on her face is contagious and you lean down to kiss her.

They bring the baby back as soon as they're done, all wrapped up in a clean blanket, and for a wild second you feel like you no longer matter, because Allison's attention is all on the baby and she seems like she could care less if you are there or not. But then she reaches for your hand, the baby cradled in her other arm, and she looks at you with such a look of wonder and love and suddenly it hits you.

You are a daddy. You are responsible for someone else, far beyond a patient at a hospital or any pet or anything you've ever taken care of.

And you're not crying.

"Hi, baby," Allison whispers, running her pointer finger over the softness of the baby's cheek and over her tiny mouth, "Welcome to the world."

You hold your arms out, because you want to hold your daughter and when Allison places the tiny baby in your arms, you forget every bad thing that's ever happened to you. You sink into the chair behind you, setting your cane down so you can touch her. She stares back at you with wide eyes, looking for all the world like she's studying you intently.

"Hello, Sophia."


	4. Chapter 4

You are proud of your daughter, and you grow to enjoy the looks of disbelief you get when you walk into the hospital, your cane clutched firmly in one hand and Sophia in your other arm. She is 6 months old, and Allison is finally coming back to work. You are thankful, because having your Immunologist only by phone during working hours for the past six months has been annoying. You do not admit publicly to missing her while you're at work.

You have sent Allison ahead to the diagnostics lab with folders for Chase and Foreman with your latest patient and you are taking Sophia to the daycare for her first day. You knew if Allison dropped her off there would be tears, and you were not in the mood to see Allison cry this morning.

You place Sophia in the arms of a woman who looks like she should still be in High School and you introduce yourself and your daughter. You don't need to – you are well known in the hospital, but you are following Allison's instructions to be at least polite, and Danielle coos at the baby and shakes your hand.

"She doesn't like bananas," you tell her, very seriously, "and she likes her car."

You hand Danielle a tiny Matchbox monster truck with the wheels ripped off. You ripped the wheels off because, while you will never admit it, you are an overprotective father and tiny wheels are a choking hazard.

Danielle smiles and accepts the car, and you're about to leave when Sophia notices and lets out a sniffle. You stop in the doorway, your back to her, and you swallow hard before you turn around.

"Sophia," you tell her firmly, "I will be back at 5. Mommy will be here at lunch to feed you."

You have never baby talked at Sophia, though Allison does. You don't see the point of cooing at her – she's young, not stupid.

Your daughter blinks at you, and you raise an eyebrow at her. She accepts her car from Danielle and you turn to leave again, glancing quickly at Sophia before you finally head out the door.

When you step into the elevator, you lean against the back wall and sigh heavily. 

This was not supposed to be that hard.

You stop the elevator, taking a few moments to gather yourself and by the time the doors open, no one would ever suspect you'd been near tears. You walk towards the diagnostics room keeping your eyes focused on the floor in front of you and no one bothers you.

When you slam open the door, Allison's head shoots up.

"Did she – is she okay?" she asks, already shattering the rule of leaving home talk away from work. Instead of pointing that out, you nod.

"She's fine. Patient?"

Allison looks a little stricken, but briefs you on the 19 year old with spontaneous internal bleeding and no feeling in either of her hands. The seizure is what brought her to the ER, and the orange mucus from her nose brought her to you. You send Chase and Foreman to the lab to run tests on the samples and Allison to the patient's room to collect a better history. As the three file out, you grab Allison's arm, squeezing gently, "She's fine," you tell her again, but softer this time, and Allison sighs and nods.

Allison disappears right at noon, and you're not surprised to find her in your office with Sophia, the blinds drawn as she nurses the baby in the soft darkness. She is whispering to the little girl, her finger brushing over Sophia's cheeks and you feel as though you're interrupting a private moment.

You are quiet as you come up behind her, letting your palm rest on her shoulder. She glances up, a light smile on her face.

"I don't know why I missed her so much," she admits, and you notice a faint sheen of tears in her eyes.

You are quiet, and you let your fingers trail over Allison's cheek, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"It will get easier," you offer, "And she's only a couple floors away."

Allison nods, focusing her eyes on the baby and you kiss her on the head before leaving her to finish.

You hate when you don't know the right thing to say.


	5. Chapter 5

Sophia's first word, much to Allison's dismay is 'House,' chirped loudly at you the morning of your wedding. You think your smile will split your face, and you reach for your daughter, carefully picking her out of the crib and holding her close.

"No, Sophie," Allison says, "Say 'dada,' Sophie. Dada."

The baby laughs, then looks at you again, "House!"

You roll your eyes, "I think she spends too much time in the diagnostics room," you tell Allison wryly, "Be glad it was at least my name, it could have been 'Chase.'"

Allison takes the baby from your arms, carrying her to the changing table and dressing her efficiently. Sophia's dress and bow are blue; it was the only compromise you could reach between the lacy pink dress Allison wanted, and the baby sized baseball uniform you picked out. You tell her pink would have clashed with Sophia's red-brown hair anyway, and that the blue brings out her eyes.

You wondered if Allison would have preferred a big wedding, with a fancy dress, but she tells you she's been there, done that, and all she wants is to be your wife.

You bring Wilson and Cuddy to the courthouse with you, and Wilson holds Sophia, balanced in his arms and facing outward as you marry Allison. It is easier than you expected, though the knot in your stomach will not go away, and when it's over you simply wrap your arms around her and hold on as tight as you can.

She is yours now, just as much as you are hers and you don't understand why you didn't do this years ago.

Wilson and Cuddy take Sophia home with them so you and Allison can have a night to yourselves. Cuddy is five months pregnant with his son, and you have only dropped three comments about her breast size – probably because after the third one Allison smacked you and told you to leave her alone; pregnancy hormones are hard enough without being teased for things she can't control.

Cuddy – Lisa – and Allison have formed a strange friendship, and you enjoy watching the two women coo over Sophia. You are happy for Wilson, you think he finally has someone he can stay with, and Cuddy seems more than content with their arrangement. It had started out with a simple request for sperm donation, and then had branched into dinner and movie nights and then, when she was already two months pregnant, a hesitant kiss.

Allison has already decided that Sophia and Baby Wilson are destined to be together forever, and she explains her reasoning in the car on the way home from the courthouse. You shut her up by backing her against the closed door and kissing her hard. You haven't had a night without Sophia since before she was born, and you are anxious to see if you still can make Allison scream.

You stay up until three am, when Allison finally falls asleep in your arms, limp and completely satisfied. There is something amazingly calming about having her in your arms, and you think you like holding her while she sleeps just as much as you like making her scream. She looks so innocent when she sleeps, her eyelashes dark and impossibly long against her pale cheeks, her curls fanned out on the pillow. She curls into you unconsciously, and your hand moves to smooth over her hair before you realize what you're doing.

You don't know who to thank for bringing her into your life. You remember choosing her file from a stack of four as you narrowed your choices and while you might be flip with her about how you hired her, she had been an obvious choice. She was not a perfect doctor, but there had been something about her and even if you didn't love her, you'd still be proud of the doctor she's become.

When you were 18, and just starting college, you had an image of your future. You were going to be great. You didn't know what you were going to be, but you knew you were going to be great. You didn't want a wife, you didn't want children, you wanted your future. When you'd met Stacy, you'd made room for her in your life and you'd continued with your work. Work always came first.

And then you met Allison and you're still not quite sure what happened. Work is important, to both of you and maybe that's why you work so well together. But the day Sophia was sick, you had no problem telling Allison that one of you was staying home with her. Someone else comes first now, and her mommy is not far behind her in your list of priorities.

You'd never expected children, especially this late in the game, but Sophia is more amazing than you'd ever imagined. You didn't want married, especially not after Stacy, but sliding that ring onto Allison's finger felt right in a way you hadn't felt since you declared yourself Premed.

And now, watching her sleep, curled up safe and warm in your arms, all you can think is that you must have done something right to deserve this.


End file.
